Renderings
by rewritetheending
Summary: A collection of small moments, mostly inspired by pictures or other graphics, within Castle and Beckett's emotional journey from friends to lovers. Each chapter is an unrelated ficlet, and the ratings and genres will change chapter to chapter, but I will include those notes at the top of every ficlet. This collection is rated M, but several of the chapters are not.
1. A Degree of Difficulty

A/N: This is a collection of unrelated ficlets originally posted on my tumblr account. Almost all of them are based upon some sort of graphic, so I will include a modified link to those at the top of each chapter. While you don't have to look at the visuals, I do think they add an important element to the moments I've attempted to capture.

Also, each chapter may be a different rating and genre, so I will be sure to specify those for each individual ficlet. Please feel free to skip anything that does not appeal to you!

* * *

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 111713258652  
Rated K+  
Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance  
Set after The Limey (4x20)

* * *

She'd lost count of how many scraps of paper had been discarded since last week's appointment with Dr. Burke. Scribbled notes with honest words, only to be torn apart, crumpled up, or occasionally even burned. He'd explained something about physically ridding herself of the negative thoughts that were still holding her back, keeping her from being more than who she is. They both knew she wouldn't commit to a full journal, but jotting down her fears in the moment? A sentence here and there to help exorcise the demons? Even she could manage that.

It was just too bad that it didn't matter anymore

Castle had given up on her.

She didn't know where things had gone so wrong; it had seemed like they were getting closer to being the elusive _them_ ,and the recent bombing case had provided a sense of urgency she was ready to embrace. There wasn't a guarantee of more time, no reason to keep kicking at her wall alone when they could break it down together. But something had happened and he'd let go of the weight of her issues in favor of someone busty and blonde. Someone fun and uncomplicated. She's none of those things, and her chest constricts at the thought.

Still, becoming _more_ was never just about him, so she takes a long, deep breath and adds the pain of losing him to the list of ills she needs to purge.

* * *

He isn't supposed to be at the precinct at all. Beckett has paperwork to do following the success she'd shared with Scotland Yard's finest, so he's able to use it as a convenient excuse to stay home all day. Unfortunately, somewhere between dinner and dessert with Jacinda the night before, he'd remembered that his most recent burst of creative energy had resulted in several paragraphs written on one of Beckett's notepads and left in her desk drawer. In a twist of fate that lesser authors would love, he's distancing himself from his muse just as Nikki Heat is tightening her grip on him with no plans to let him go.

Rubbing a hand over his face in an attempt to summon a more neutral expression, he steps off the elevator and moves quickly toward her desk. He looks around the bullpen for her, out of habit more than anything else, and is relieved to see her in a meeting with Gates and the boys; it doesn't look like they'll be done any time soon and there is no reason she needs to know he's here.

He makes himself comfortable in her chair and opens the drawer where he'd left his half-written chapter, his eyes drawn to a pink notepad he hadn't seen before. It looks like she'd been in the middle of a sentence when she'd left for the meeting, the declaration stopping abruptly, the pen leaving a haphazard mark where she'd dropped it.

Oh, Kate. No.

 _I wasn't a good enough reason for my father to_

To what? To put down the bottle? To be a dad to a 19-year-old who'd just had her idyllic childhood swapped for adulthood hell?

With an almost accidental glance at the trashcan by his foot, he finds a pile of pink notes that have been wadded up and thrown away. There is no justification for digging through her trash, especially when he's so firmly insisting that she doesn't matter anymore, but he can't help but reach down. He opens them up, one by one.

 _My mom would be so disappointed in me._

 _I deserve all the nightmares that keep me up at night._

 _No child should be stuck with me as his or her mother._

And then he feels the guilt sink low in his gut, nauseating and threatening to double him over.

 _If Castle gave up on me, so will everyone else._

 _There's a degree of difficulty in dealing with me._

He's certain that final one is a result of the offhand insult he'd tossed her way before he'd left her alone at the precinct, extolling Jacinda's virtues when the reference to Kate was obvious. It was unnecessary, and the same could be said about most of his recent behavior. Sure, she'd hurt him and he has every right to be angry, but she has every right to an actual conversation about it. His frustration has gone too far and he aches, looking up at Gates' office and wondering how he can start to ease the pain he's caused. Even if Kate will never love him, he can't leave her like this.

Rifling through her drawer for an unused notepad, he hurries to share his own thoughts before she returns.

* * *

When she finally falls into her chair, eager to finish her paperwork, she notices that the drawer is partially open and she tilts her head in confusion. Then the panic strikes, sharp and dreadful. She'd tossed an unfinished note in there before Gates had called her away. If anyone had seen that…

And someone had.

In place of the one she'd left behind, she sees several of the pieces she'd already discarded with a therapeutic sense of calm. They'd been written and thrown away like the garbage they were, but someone had resurrected them, smoothed them with a love they didn't warrant, and piled for her to revisit. Most importantly, on top of her own notes is a small stack of another's. The familiar scrawl answers her question before it can fully form. Of course.

Then again, it makes no sense for him to have been at the precinct. He'd made it clear that he has better things to do now, so where one question had been so easily answered, a million more appear. She's embarrassed, but the only way to understand is to reach for them, handling them with a reverence she never grants her own confessions.

 _I was a lonely kid because I wasn't worth anyone's effort._

 _My relationships don't work because I'm a failure._

 _When I get hurt, I act out like a child instead of talking about my feelings._

She still doesn't know exactly _why_ he's hurt, but she's certainly felt the effects of the lashing out.

 _I'm the only one to blame when my love isn't returned._

But it is, Castle. It really is. They're simultaneously so close and so far apart.

At the bottom of his small pile is one of her pink pages, creases disrupting the careful penmanship; the writing is now both hers and his. Just below where she'd admitted that she comes with a high degree of difficulty is his own message, a different kind of profession.

 _What you see as "difficult," I see as one of the many reasons I love you. I'm sorry I made you feel otherwise. There are a lot of things we should discuss, but until then…you're enough, she'd be so proud, you don't, they'd be blessed, and I will never give up on you. Never._


	2. From Across the Street

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 109731488187  
Rated T (strong T/light M?)  
Romance  
Set anytime post-marriage

* * *

He's supposed to be meeting her for lunch. They've found this brief chance to reconnect over a necessary meal, too busy with meetings and murder over the past week to get an opportunity for anything more than a quick hello and a few hours of sleep by the other's side. And he knows he's wasting precious conversation time by standing across the street, but he can't help it. His wife is just so damn beautiful and he's captivated.

He wants to kneel before her, palms splayed over those tight black pants. The seams would be beneath the pads of his thumbs, leading him upward to where heat most certainly awaits. He'd nip at the inside of her thighs and make her squirm. Maybe even beg a little. And whisper a 'fuck' or two.

He imagines the practiced release of her belt, the soft snap as he'd pull it from her waist and toss it aside. There have been times that keeping the belt handy has been an important part of their encounters, but he doesn't think this would be the time for it. No, he'd be in the mood for something far more straightforward. Leaving on the floor to retrieve later would be fine.

He feels the weight of her jacket, knowing he'd slip his hands under the leather resting upon her shoulders before sliding it down her arms. Then again, perhaps he wouldn't. Maybe he'd rather leave it in place, let it serve as a reminder of how much he appreciates the edginess she's maintained, even as she's been measurably softened by love. Yeah, the jacket would stay on.

He knows his last target would be her shirt and he'd pop each button with a patience he only exhibits when he's intent on stoking something powerful. When opened, it would show off her lacy bra, something she'd worn to counter the black leather in a premeditated attempt to fulfill multiple fantasies at once. He'd reach in to cup one breast, pulling it free of the fabric and ducking down to suck one taut tip into his mouth.

He smiles when he sees her tapping out a text message, presumably to him, a well-deserved admonishment for being late. She's owed an explanation and he'll do his best. Maybe now. Maybe later. He shakes his head and crosses to where she's waiting. He won't keep the daydream to himself for long; he never does.


	3. A Tie for a Tie

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 102590561252 (NSFW)  
Rated M  
Smut/Romance  
Set anytime post-couple

* * *

He didn't understand it at first. They were going out to dinner, just as they had a million times before. Sure, it was a nice enough restaurant, but not so formal that it required a tie. Still, when he got out of the shower, she gracefully cut through the steam and slipped the accessory into his hand.

"Wear this for me."

He opened his mouth to question her request, but she shut him up with a kiss and he shrugged when she pulled away. Sure. A tie. He could do that for her.

When they returned hours later, pleasantly full, and with a bottle of pinot noir making everything crackle with a bit more warmth, he could do nothing but smile when she pushed him down onto the couch; they had the loft to themselves and apparently one more appetite to satisfy. She remained standing in front of him, even while he shifted restlessly against the cushions, and his eyes never left hers as she reached behind her back to unzip her little black dress. She tugged the straps from her shoulders and wiggled her hips until the material pooled at her feet, and he reached for her lace panties, reveling in the feeling of the rough fabric and her deliciously smooth skin. Biting her lip in a way that would someday kill him, she nodded encouragingly until he dragged them down her legs.

She was left in nothing but her black bra and sinfully high heels and he was more than ready. He tugged her into his lap and let her settle with a knee on either side of his hips, pulling her into a rough kiss that left them both breathless and needy. Then she rose enough to allow her clever fingers to work at his belt and pants, his hands grasping, scratching, bruising. As soon as he was freed, she lowered herself fully and paused for the briefest second before establishing a furious rhythm above him. His hand was pressed to her breast, but hers held fiercely to his tie…her rein.

When she finally collapsed against him, their hearts stuttering helplessly and her lips teasing the line of his jaw, she whispered her explanation.

"I wore my tie for you last week. Just thought it was time for you to return the favor."

And with that, he understood completely.


	4. Getting Warmer

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 109069589477 (may be NSFW)  
Rated T  
Hurt/Comfort/Romance  
Set after Countdown (3x17)

* * *

She doesn't bother to remove her gloves before she summons all her strength to bang on the door of his loft. It's late and there's a chance he's already asleep, but she couldn't stay alone in her apartment and her mind won't stop _going_ even as the rest of her seems to have frozen completely. When he opens the door within seconds, she sighs, almost surprised that she can't see her own breath when she exhales.

It's only been a handful of hours since they were rescued from the freezer, but she's not sure she'll ever be warm again.

He steps aside to let her in, hiding his reaction to her unannounced visit better than she would have expected, but the door is barely shut behind her when she curls into him, and she feels the sharp breath he takes. He's wearing nearly as many layers as she is, seems to shake just as uncontrollably, probably needs her in the same way she needs him. Still, she can tell that he's stiffened at the contact and she frowns against his chest. She doesn't know how to ask for this; words are his thing.

Instead, she tucks herself more tightly under his chin, grasps at his sweater with her still-covered hands, and breathes his name. It's a simple plea. In response, he whispers another man's name, the question obvious, so she finds the strength to meet his tired eyes and shake her head. No, that man has gone, an abrupt goodbye that should have happened long ago; the doctor is now free to throw himself into his medical missions and she's free to throw himself into this embrace.

And maybe never let go.

She startles when he starts moving them, awkwardly guiding her through each clumsy step toward his bedroom even as they remain pressed together. Yes. _Yes._ He seems to understand and he's not pushing her away, welcoming her instead. She's not entirely sure she deserves it, but she needs it. Needs him. If he'll just hold her close, wrap her with blankets and his body, she thinks she can finally stop being so damn cold. _Please._

But he doesn't stop at the bed, in spite of the thick down comforter and extra throws she sees there; he's already left that particular remedy behind and is going to try something new. She shivers when they reach his large bathroom, unsure of how right and wrong this is, yet willing to let him lead her to whatever warmth he can provide.

He releases her in the middle of the room, squeezing her shoulder once in quick apology before stepping toward the tub. The sound of the water is thunderous and the steam fills the room quickly. She only wishes it were enough to steady her until he returns to her side. Instead, she fights off each convulsion and wonders for the hundredth time how being cold can _hurt_ so much. She would have guessed that she'd be numb, unable to feel the constant ache, but it's uncontrollable; she's freezing from the inside out and it's made her weary and scared.

As soon as he touches her again, he's peeling the clothes from her body, starting with the gloves on her hands and ending with the underwear he drags down her legs. Still fully dressed himself, he helps her into the tub, holding her carefully until she's settled beneath the water. In any other reality, she's certain she would be waiting and watching as he bares himself to her for the first time, but tonight she lets herself slide down the porcelain until she's completely submerged, the heat swallowing her whole.

Seconds (or maybe a lifetime) later, he nudges her with his foot and she comes up for air. He lowers himself into the bath and sits facing her, but pulls her close so that they meet as a tangled mess of arms and legs and relief and hope. Their breathing becomes more sure, the shaking subsides, and she closes her eyes when she finally forgets the way the chill had rattled from so deep inside. It's quiet and perfect.

She hadn't been able to finish her declaration hours earlier, but it's unnecessary now; love simply exists in their silence.


	5. Coffee's Kiss

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 105725601887  
Rated K+  
Friendship/Romance  
Set about a week after Tick Tick Tick/Boom! (2x17 and 2x18)

* * *

It was a habit long before he acknowledged its significance. Bringing her coffee after an early morning call just made sense. Keeping her fueled with caffeine on long days was the least he could do. Warming her with another latte on a cold night hardly registered as chivalrous. It wasn't until she shuffled into his kitchen half-asleep, rising before the sun with Espo's call about a body, that he realized there was so much more behind each small gesture.

Almost a week had passed since her apartment had been blown apart and she'd been forced to stay with him. That particular morning, he'd been up writing for a few hours, so when he heard her moving around upstairs, he hurried to get the coffee ready. When she joined him, eyelids heavy and smile smudged with sleep, he handed her a mug and found himself envious of the warm ceramic pressed so intimately against her mouth. In a move he'd be careful not to analyze too thoroughly, his thumb slid across the rim of his own cup and he dreamed of running it along her lower lip with the same tenderness.

And then his mind wandered further. He imagined the day they'd both know what the coffee symbolized - a kiss and a promise of tomorrow - even if it was too soon for either of them to speak the truth aloud. He let himself hope for a time that she might bring him coffee in bed, more comfortable in his home and returning the sentiment with a shy smile. He even envisioned a cool and quiet morning in the Hamptons, curled with her under a blanket while they watched the crashing waves and drank from the silly mugs they'd been gifted (engraved with "A Detective's Husband" and "A Writer's Wife").

"Thank you for this, Castle." He startled at her words, stunned at softness of her fingers on his forearm as she nodded toward the mugs in their hands.

"Well, my coffee and I will always be here for you."

And then with an honesty that almost broke him, she replied on a whisper.

"I'm counting on it."


	6. Tangled

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 110366168452 (may be NSFW)  
Rated M (a relatively light M)  
Comfort/Romance  
Set at the end of Always (4x23)

* * *

Any modesty she might have feigned their first time together was washed away by the rain; it lies in a puddle beneath the swings and will be absorbed by the strength of tomorrow's sun. And now she's spread before him, stripped bare in so many ways, as he sweeps over her naked body with the same eyes that have studied everything else about her for four years. She says nothing, but the message is clear.

She surrenders.

And he takes what's been offered.

He starts at her ankles, thumbs brushing the delicate bone before sliding upward to the subtle slope of her calves. As he moves to her knees, he opens her further to his gaze and his surprise is caught by the silent room. Yes, she's more than ready for this - for him - and her arousal beckons him forward until his mouth is pressed against her with both a plea and a vow. His fingertips dig into the willing flesh of her thighs where she's certain to bruise, but after all the marks Maddox left behind, she's content to be tattooed by love. She closes her eyes when his relentless lips and tongue cause her back to bow and her breath to be released in a string of broken curses.

She has little time to recover before the weight of his body blankets hers and she knows she safe, treasured even, but she doesn't miss the tension that still hums between them; his anger has quieted, but it lingers. It's in the bite on her neck that he waits a few moments to soothe with a kiss. It's in the grip he uses to extend her arms, pinning her for a horizontal crucifixion. It's in the growl of her name that only sounds hopeful after the t has been sharply crossed.

There are many things she will be giving him from this point forward, unrestrained apologies and honest explanations among them. She'll give him whatever future she can be courageous enough to embrace. There are all the coffees she's promised and the smiles she's worked to keep hidden for too long. She'll be a better friend to him and a lover at last. But first, there's this; she gives her body without reservation and feels him take it with the splintered edge of frustration.

His first push into her is rough, but she knows neither one of them is sorry. It's exactly how they began their relationship and it seems fitting now, so she simply moans low into his ear and welcomes him in a way she didn't years before. They'll find their rhythm. They always do.


	7. Happy Birthday

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 115496405057 (NSFW)  
Rated M  
Smut/Romance  
Set on one of Castle's birthdays, after they're married

* * *

As she fastens the final clasp to the top of her stockings, she has the passing thought that this may become a birthday tradition…his own special celebration every April. Not that she hasn't donned this particular outfit on other occasions, but she plans to change up the routine tonight, and those variables may need to make an annual appearance. She'll decide for sure once she's played with him for a bit. One last look in the full-length mirror has her appreciating her own body, and she runs the tip of her finger across her abdomen.

Teasing. Promising.

Her anticipation is at its peak, and the knowledge that his is at least as intense makes her hot with both power and need. She looks into the other room and sees him waiting with something that resembles patience, so she picks up the blindfold from the bathroom counter and saunters toward him, each careful sway of her hips meant to drive him a little crazier. He's almost relaxed in the chair, still mostly dressed from their dinner, and she's eager to make it clear that control belongs to her.

It's a gift for both of them.

When she reaches him, neither of them speak, words unnecessary in moments like these. She tugs the blindfold over his head and into place; there's no question that he's already memorized the way the lace of her bra is barely restraining her taut nipples, the way the light from the room just catches the glistening between her legs, the sheer fabric of her panties terrible at hiding her arousal. Once she's confident that is he is unable to see, she bends down for a kiss, messy and fierce and full of a dark and joyful intimacy that she's never shared with anyone else.

Before the kiss is fully broken, she's sliding her hand down the front of his body, following one of the suspender straps until she reaches the point at which it's attached to his pants. She unfastens it as their lips part, offers him a smile he doesn't know exists, then moves behind him. The strap is still in her hand, and she can tell he knows what's about to happen when he tenses just slightly, immensely turned on and maybe a bit nervous. She doesn't disappoint, of course, silently nudging him forward in the chair so that she can pull both of his arms behind him and bind his wrists with the loose strap, the other still resting snugly against his shoulder.

She steps back to admire her work, her husband sufficiently blindfolded and bound, his sense of sight and an element of touch lost to him. It seems only fair to allow him some enjoyment through both smell and taste. Stepping forward and balancing one sky-high stiletto on the arm of the chair, she palms the back of his head and guides him toward her, easing up on the pressure only when his nose is pressed to the front of her thong.

He inhales. She feels it.

He exhales. She feels that, too.

Then she holds herself steady as he attempts to find her through the thin barrier, the material already damp and becoming soaked. His tongue works fervently, then he does his best to suck on her, lips seeking her swollen flesh with a hint of frustration. It doesn't matter, though; she's about to push him away. As much as she loves the way he makes her come - and knows that he's getting increasingly desperate for an unobstructed taste of her - she's hungry, too.

It's time.

Her hand slides across his forehead and she forces him backward, shivering as soon as the air reminds her of how warm his mouth was against her. But she regains her composure quickly, backing away just long enough to drop to her knees in front of him, then reassuring him of her presence by dragging her fingernails from his knees to the tops of his thighs. It's his turn to tremble and it inspires her to keep going; she moves inward until she can scrape the length of him, his erection straining against the fabric of his pants.

 _Fuck._

She's not completely sure who said it. Probably him, but it doesn't really matter when the feeling is mutual. She hurries to undo his button, tug down the zipper, and free him from his brand new silk boxers. They both get an odd thrill from leaving him mostly clothed during some of their filthier moments, so she doesn't bother undressing him any further. Instead, she simply leans forward and takes him deep into her mouth. She hears him gasp, surprised that she didn't bother to tease him first, but she releases him with a pop and smirks. She doesn't want to fall short of his expectations.

Her hand holds him still as she draws a wet stripe with her tongue, tracing the underside of his shaft from base to tip. Then she circles his head, the contact almost painfully light for him, causing him to jerk involuntarily and encouraging her even more. One hand returns to his thigh, reveling in the hum of energy beneath her palm, his conscious attempt to keep from begging. She continues to kiss, lick, and otherwise torment him with her mouth, finding mercy only when there's a small stream of fluid that she can't ignore. She suckles him, the familiar taste enough to drive her forward.

It's all fast then.

She bobs enthusiastically, letting him hear the vulgar sounds made with each sloppy slide of her mouth. He doesn't have the leverage to fuck her properly - it's the only reason she regrets tying him up - but she's sucking him off so willingly that control becomes unimportant. There's an ache in the way her sex is clenching around nothing, so she begins to rock rhythmically, seeking any measure of relief. Each needy moan that falls from his lips lets her know that he won't last much longer, and she's grateful that she'll have plenty of time to get off after he does.

There's one sure way to finish him off: words. He likes to listen almost as much as he likes to talk, so she pulls away to tell him exactly what she wants him to do. It's graphic, her description, full of images that could make her blush if she wasn't so happily settled between the legs of the man she loves and trusts. She takes him into her mouth one last time, stroking him with her hand as she presses the flat of her tongue underneath his head and sucks thirstily. It's only a few seconds before he's spilling into her, jerking forward as best he can from his seated position, breathing her name with a mixture of awe and appreciation.

She waits him out, takes her time, releases him lazily, and tucks him back in as he recovers. Rising carefully, she resists the temptation to touch herself; she's on edge and will gladly take advantage of his talented tongue before the rest of him can return for round two. But not here. The chair served its purpose, but she's ready for a bed, so she curls two fingers around the still-fastened suspender strap and pulls until he gets the hint to stand. She briefly considers giving him the use of his eyes and arms again, but then she smiles.

As long as his mouth is free, they'll be fine.


	8. When Mine Shake

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 130905579917  
Rated T  
Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Friendship/Romance  
Set after Kill Shot (4x09)

* * *

His heart rattles in his chest when he sees the text from her, his pulse suddenly too strong and his cheeks hot with an anxious rush. He'd thought everything was fine between them – maybe even good – when he'd left the precinct that afternoon, but as he begins to tap out a reply, he wonders if he'd read her wrong. Maybe he'd pushed too far with his promise of always, or perhaps she'd yet to pull free from the hell the sniper had brought raining down upon her. After all, a closed case hadn't healed whatever she was concealing beneath the bandage on her wrist; the emotional damage would last even longer.

She wants to talk. Actually, she wrote that they _need_ to talk. _Now, if possible. At Remy's, if that's okay._ There's an immediate need and a request for neutral ground and he thinks some part of him is cracking open, fear filling the fissures. His mind is in a bit of a freefall, but his response is as simple as her request.

 _Of course. I'll be there in 15._

He's aware he's tipping toward the melodramatic – a tendency for which he'll thank his mother later – so he focuses on finding his shoes and grabbing his wallet and keys from the top of his dresser. After he calls up to Alexis and promises to be home later, he slides into his coat, pulls the front door shut behind him, and makes his way out of the loft, finally forcing himself to consider the situation more logically on his brisk walk to the diner.

It's unlikely Kate is upset with him; for once, he hasn't done anything to deserve a disapproving glare or the shake of her head. In fact, he'd backed off during the case, setting aside his own screaming need to have her close. He'd given her room to breathe at a time when she was damn near gasping for air, and if he's honest with himself, he's actually really proud of his ability to be the kind of friend she'd needed. The sniper case had knocked her on her ass – literally, in fact – and he'd let Esposito keep watch, yielding to the man who knew too much about what she was facing.

By the time Castle reaches the door of Remy's, a familiar bell announcing his arrival, he's more grounded and prepared to have whatever conversation awaits him. He didn't survive a bank heist just to lose his cool now.

He spots her immediately, and she's been here long enough to have a cup of coffee pressed to her lips already; as he approaches the booth, their server stops to ask him if he'd like a coffee of his own.

"Yes, please. And a slice of apple pie."

He scoots along the worn vinyl and faces Kate. Her eyes hold onto a trace of tears shed not long ago, but she's smiling at his request for dessert; it's an indulgence that was just out of her reach, but well within his. If he had to make a quick assessment, he'd guess she's no longer living the nightmare of the past few days, but is still struggling with something that's carved a deep line between her brows.

When his coffee arrives, he wraps his hand around the mug and waits her out, but the silence lasts only a few seconds before she rushes through her confession. "I'm in therapy. I mean, beyond the physical therapy I told you about. Like the regular 'I'm a psychological disaster' kind of therapy with a wise and stoic doctor who listens to me whine about my problems."

He's surprised, mostly by her willingness to share something so private, but he innocently tilts his head in response. "You're far from a disaster, Kate. Do you think it helps?"

"When I let it," she murmurs, nodding to herself as though it's the first time she's admitted it aloud.

Before either of them can say more, a huge slice of pie is placed between them, and they each grab for a fork when he winks at her. It's a well-practiced routine, and one that fills him with ridiculous joy; Kate carefully scrapes the layer of crust from the top and lifts a chunk of it toward her mouth, and he digs into the warm apple filling without regard for the mess he makes. He remembers teasing her the first time they shared a slice – who could possibly like the crust better than the filling? – until she'd pointed out that they make the perfect pair, each one uninterested in the other's favorite part.

A happy silence settles around them, dessert fortifying her before she reveals anything else.

Finally, their forks clatter against the empty plate and she sighs. "I saw my therapist this afternoon. It's why I texted you when I did. I'd just left his office and if I'd gone straight home with a promise that I'd talk to you about this stuff later…well, I knew this conversation might not happen."

"Is everything okay?"

"Hmmmm, yes and no." She shifts in her seat, but doesn't drop her eyes. "This case sucked, obviously, but I think it helped me realize how much I've let my past define me. I want more from my life. I want to _be_ more."

Her words bring him back to a day on the swings after a summer of nothing at all. "But you have a wall."

"I have one hell of a wall, yeah. But I'm so damn tired of it being in my way." Kate swallows the last of her coffee and pushes the mug aside. "You did the right thing by giving me space the past couple of days. I don't think I was ready to consider any other option."

"But after you talked to your therapist?" He tries to keep his hope from crowding the words, wants to tuck it away where he's had it contained for months. Maybe longer.

She opens her mouth a few times, her teeth falling to tug at her bottom lip as she searches for whatever she's struggling to say. "When I first came back after my shooting, and I pulled my gun on our suspect, you watched while my hands shook. Last night, after I sort of freaked out in my apartment, I sat on my floor and stared at my hands while they shook. And this afternoon, when I told Dr. Burke that I want to let go of everything holding me back, I looked down at my lap and cried while my hands shook."

He's lost. She's finally opening up to him and he thinks it must be a really good thing, but he's lost. "Kate, I'm not sure-"

The vulnerability in her eyes, an honesty he wishes he could embrace, strikes him just before her whisper. "I asked you to meet me here because you need to know that I don't want to do this alone anymore. And your hands are the ones I want to hold when mine shake."


	9. The Hamptons

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 131751398997  
Rated K+  
Friendship/Romance  
Set after A Deadly Game (2x24)

* * *

The grass beneath her bare feet is a welcome reminder of how far she's come since a day ago; yesterday morning, the sharp click of her heels had announced her arrival at the precinct, but nobody has heard her footsteps today. Yesterday she'd been surrounded by the familiar sounds of the city and the satisfaction of closing another case, but today she was awakened by silence and thoughts of what could be. Most importantly, yesterday she was dating Demming – even planning a weekend away with him – and now she's a guest at Castle's Hamptons home with no real plans at all.

It's a lot of change to absorb, but Kate doesn't bother to smother the smile she knows is stretched across her face. A morning like this doesn't allow for anything but happiness.

She's already made coffee, and a full mug and a well-loved copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ await her from the poolside table on which she placed them. Now she's on the hunt for a beach towel and she's pretty sure she remembers Castle saying that they're kept in the modest pool house he'd nodded toward during last night's tour of his property, so she walks across the strip of grass until she finds the door and pushes it open.

The building is small and well-organized, and Kate navigates it easily. There's an assortment of pool toys – the array of Super Soakers is no shock at all – and a few extra lounge chairs folded in one corner. She spots some tools for the impressive grill and wonders if Castle has plans to barbecue while they're out here; the image is blatantly domestic and far too appealing. Then she tugs on the handle of one of the built-in cabinets and sees a stack of towels and some extra cover-ups. She's wearing a hoodie over her simple tank top and shorts, the morning chill yet to be chased by the sun, but as she grabs a towel, one of the cover-ups catches her eye.

Cream and lace and indulgent beauty; it's an interesting choice for something intended to be casually thrown over a bathing suit, but she runs her fingers over the material and appreciates it nonetheless. After a few seconds, she allows herself to free it from the pile so she can get a better look.

"It's an interesting choice for beach wear, isn't it? My mother never disappoints in that regard."

Kate jumps at the sound of Castle's voice behind her, the timbre affecting her in ways that settle deep beyond her obvious surprise at his presence. "This is Martha's?"

He steps beside her and touches the fabric, his hand enticingly close to her own. "She thought her bright colors might make her stand out too much in this quiet town, so she bought something 'subtle' instead. Of course, she's never actually worn it."

"Why not? It's gorgeous."

"I think she forgot that she likes to stand out," he quips. "Hey, you should put it on."

She chokes on some combination of laughter and doubt. "Why should I wear this? Do I strike you as the type to sit poolside in delicate lace?"

Castle offer a shy shrug. "You don't have to leave it on. But like you said, it's gorgeous. Just indulge me for a minute."

"Ha! I've been indulging you for over a year now." And it's true, but it doesn't stop her from grabbing the cover-up and pushing past him for the pool house door. When she reaches her still-waiting lounge chair, she grabs for her coffee and takes a long swallow from it, seeking the liquid courage that generally rests at the bottom of a bottle of something much stronger. Then she unzips her hoodie and tosses it aside, refusing to look back toward Castle as she slips the cover-up over her head; it's only when she takes a few steps across the grass, intending to rejoin him in the small building, that she finds he's crept behind her with his phone held high and a grin on his face.

"Smile, Beckett."

She doesn't fight it like she should, doesn't quite manage the eye roll he probably expects. For whatever reason, she wants him to have this moment of pure joy; there's enough of it humming through her veins to be able to share. So she stands there, barefoot in the grass and only her head turned toward him.

And she smiles.

* * *

Their first full day in the Hamptons was everything Kate had hoped for when she'd timidly accepted Castle's invitation. After she'd allowed Castle to take her picture – no real arm twisting required – Kate had removed the lace cover-up and returned it to the pool house before sitting with him in their side-by-side lounge chairs. Then she'd happily wrapped herself in her hoodie again and curled up with her coffee and book; she was surprised Castle was content to let her relax for so long, only interrupting the silence when the sun had conquered enough clouds to make swimming more fun than frigid.

They'd spent quite a while in the pool together, and she was absolutely _not_ distracted by how incredible he looked shirtless and soaking wet. Of course, any attention she'd given him could be considered fair repayment for the way his suspiciously dark eyes had catalogued each one of her curves, so much skin revealed to him for the first time – or at least the first time he wasn't saving her from an exploding apartment. There was a mutual appreciation at play, not-so-stolen glances roaming where hands hadn't dared, something bubbling between them until her stomach fluttered and her heart begged to be heard.

Eventually they'd dried off and made their way into his kitchen, building delicious sandwiches and snacking on fresh fruit as they chatted about everything and nothing. Kate yawned as she pushed her empty plate aside, realizing how tired she'd become from spending the morning outdoors, her body stress-free and eager for a nap. Castle had merely laughed, reassuring her that laziness was exhausting, and she'd ducked away with yet another smile on her face.

Now she's awake, showered, and dressed for their late-afternoon and evening plans; Castle hadn't been too specific, but she knows he's taking her to Main Street for window shopping and dinner, so she's wearing a comfortable maxi dress, a lightweight cardigan, and sandals. As she preens in front of the full-length mirror in the guest bedroom, she swallows against her nervousness and questions that don't have answers. This feels like a date – like an actual _date_ date – and she finds herself more uncertain of the next few hours than she had been about joining him for the entire weekend. Perhaps she'd doused herself in a good amount of denial before packing her bag, convinced a three-day trip would be the platonic getaway Castle had promised, but she is fighting too many emotions to believe it's that simple.

And she wants it to be more.

Kate combs her fingers through the loose waves falling to her shoulders, then needlessly smooths the front of her dress, finally taking a deep breath and winding her way through the house. She can hear Castle before she sees him in the living room, his phone pressed to his ear and the tone of his voice suggesting he's in the middle of a conversation with his daughter. His face brightens when he notices her, but she quickly gestures toward the front of the house, happy to let him finish talking while she explores more of his property. It only takes a minute to recognize that there isn't as much to see here as in the backyard – the combination of the pool and ocean behind his home are reliably breathtaking – but she's quickly drawn to a row of bushes, their flowers delighting in the spring sunshine.

Settling onto the small rock wall separating the bushes from the loose pebbles of the driveway, her vision blurs as her mind wanders once more toward the possibilities the night might bring. She's finally acknowledged she is hoping for more than a friendship with Castle; for all of times she's scoffed at his very presence, her life is better when he's near. And he's been an incorrigible flirt throughout their unconventional partnership, so tonight, maybe after they've shared dessert and cappuccinos, he'll reach for her hand and-

The heat floods her cheeks when she hears him clear his throat, his mirth poorly contained as he glances at the picture he's just taken with his phone. "Care to share whatever daydream took you so far away?"

"Mmmmmm, not yet."

"Not yet, huh?" He's intrigued, maybe a little surprised by her playfulness. "Well, then…do you think I could get another picture? Maybe one in which you're actually looking at the camera?"

Kate can't find the words she needs, but she nods even as she curls in on herself, ducking behind a couple of the flowers and giving him a smile he returns without hesitation. She thinks he might tease her, poke fun at this bashful version of herself that she barely recognizes, but he slips the phone into his pocket when he's done and reaches out to help her up.

"Come on, let's go get dinner."

* * *

The following day, her fingertips skim the surface of the water as she floats around the pool on one of the rafts Castle had retrieved from the pool house; he's on one, too, so they occasionally drift past each other, never in the same place for long.

It strikes her as apropos of their relationship, two people yet to connect on a level any deeper than friendship, due in some part to wind or water or life at the precinct, but mostly born of an inability to simply grab the other long enough to say something. God knows they'd both failed last night, Castle keeping his hands to himself and Kate left quietly wanting. And she's aware she's responsible for much of her current frustration; in the day and a half she's been with him in the Hamptons, she still hasn't found a way to spill the gratitude that has puddled on her tongue. Gratitude, and no small amount of desire.

But grand declarations are overwhelming, so she decides to take a smaller leap of faith and drag him along for the ride.

"Castle?"

She feels his raft bump into hers as he paddles closer, and turns her head in time to see his silly grin. "Yes, Beckett?"

It's unnerving, the way his attention is wholly focused on what she's about to say; she thinks she'd be more comfortable if he were scanning the body bared to him in a not-so-modest bikini instead of awaiting the words she's been stupidly rehearsing for several minutes.

"Can I take you out to dinner tonight? Anywhere you'd like. My treat."

His eyes go wide. "You want to go out with me again?"

"Well, we need to eat, I have another dress I'd love to wear, and last night was fun. So, yeah, I want to go out with you again," she says with a smile. "Why do you look so shocked? I'm offering dinner, not a quickie in your swimming pool."

Kate's grateful she's watching him so closely because she's able to catch the exact moment he realizes sitting up and turning toward her is a mistake, his entire body flailing as he tips the raft and falls into the water. When he comes up for air, he's coughing and attempting a glare that has no chance of affecting her, especially when she's unable to focus on him through her laughter.

"Jesus, Beckett. You're gonna kill me."

"So, then…it'll be just one for dinner?"

She barely has time to squeal when she notices he's got a grip on her raft, yanking on the side until she's off-balance and tumbling into the pool. Panic doesn't even have a chance to set in before she feels his strong arms wrapped around her, helping guide her back to the surface.

Nope. No panic at all. But with his body pressed against hers, something has her heart pounding.

Castle releases her quickly enough, but stays just inches away as he accepts her invitation. "Dinner for two."

* * *

For the second time in their short getaway, Kate is studying her reflection as she finishes getting ready, though the shaking of her hands and an unfortunate curl of nausea are more notable tonight. The dress she has slipped into is a bit more formal, the cream color striking against her newly sun-kissed skin and the black ribbon offering a sweetly feminine detail around her waist. She trails her finger along the neckline, releasing a weak breath when she acknowledges her hope that Castle might do the same by the end of their evening.

He was a perfect damn gentleman last night; she's determined to tempt him into more questionable behavior within the next few hours. After two full days together, he must have some idea she doesn't want to return to the city as the same kind of partners they were on Friday, but he's yet to push those boundaries, and she's wondering how to go about removing them altogether.

Castle must be waiting on her now, so she gives herself one final glance and rolls her eyes at any lingering apprehension. She's barely made it downstairs when he whistles his appreciation and she battles back the urge to hide from his stare; it's really everything she wants right now. Without a word, she tangles her fingers with his and leads him toward the front door, and it's only when they're outside that she turns into him, looking up with wide eyes.

"Do you want to take another picture of me?"

If he'd been on a raft, she's pretty sure he would have fallen in the pool again, his surprise leaving him with little to say. "You-I can-you're actually giving me _permission_ to pull out my camera?"

"I am." She nudges him with her shoulder. "But don't make me regret it."

"No, no. Not at all."

She laughs at his ongoing confusion and moves toward the same wall she'd been sitting on the night before. As she kicks off her shoes, she recognizes she might get her dress dirty, but it will be worth it – everything about this is so, so worth it. Kate tugs the hem upward, baring her legs to the sunshine and Castle's curious eyes, then settles onto the stone and lets her longing show through her smile.

"Go ahead, Castle. Add to your little album."

But he doesn't. At least not right away. He's frozen, his phone held high as his jaw hangs low. "Beckett. Kate. You're-"

"I'm what?"

"You're stunning. Magnificent. Remarkable. Extraordinary…though I guess I've used that one before," he murmurs. "And I'm sorry because I promised you an innocent, friendly weekend and I shouldn't be saying all of this, but you're…everything."

He shakes his head as though he's clearing his confession away, then looks to his phone and quickly takes her picture. It's not until much later that either of them realize how perfectly he captured the expression on her face; she's caught somewhere among the collision of sadness, disbelief, and adoration, so serious while she figures out how to respond.

"God, no, Castle," she whispers, scrambling to her feet as well as she can in her dress. As soon as she's able to reach for him, she tugs the phone away with one hand and cradles his face with the other. "Don't be sorry. I don't need friendly anymore. I mean, I need friendly, but I also-"

Kate cuts herself off when she stands on her tiptoes and presses her mouth to his. It takes him a moment to understand what is happening, but then he easily deepens the kiss, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer. For several seconds, dinner plans are forgotten, ignored while they're lost in tentative exploration, surrendering to each other.

Finally, Castle pulls away, though he tucks a stray curl behind her ear as though he doesn't want to let go completely. "We should probably get to the restaurant."

"We probably should."

"And then we should probably come back here and-." He gestures between them with the excited wave of his hand.

She bites her lip, but can't begin to disguise her happiness, giving up and nodding instead. "We definitely should."

Lacing his fingers with hers once more, he tugs her forward for their walk to Main Street. Then she remembers she still has his phone and slips it into his pocket with a mischievous smirk.

Maybe later in their night, she'll offer to pose for a few more pictures.


	10. Christening

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 122028593022 (NSFW)  
Rated M  
Smut/Romance  
Set sometime after Castle, P.I. (7x11)

* * *

She smiles as she drags him through the old building, taking the stairs so his anticipation lasts just a bit longer. It's date night and her turn to surprise him with something special, so she's packed a picnic dinner for two and tugged a blindfold over Castle's curious eyes and ignored the many times he's begged her for a hint. It's a game they play, his puppy dog pleas and her faux exasperation, but they've finally arrived at their destination, so she positions him in the middle of the room and tells him that he's allowed to peek.

His brows furrow and he tilts his head in confusion and, quite frankly, it's adorable. "Our date is at my PI office?"

"Mmmhmm."

"You realize there's a rather large city out there? Lots of world-class restaurants, museums, and theaters within reach?"

She nods and sets the basket of food on his desk before stepping into his waiting embrace. "Yes, there are a lot of places we could have gone, but I wanted to bring you here so that I can show you again how proud I am. How you continue to amaze me every day. And I don't think a fancy museum would appreciate me doing _this._ "

When she palms him through his pants, his eyes widen comically. "Are you offering to help christen my place of business?"

"If that's okay, of course. I mean, you are a famous author. I'm sure you could pull some strings and get us in at Drago tonight."

He doesn't answer her.

Instead, he unfastens her jeans in record time, his hand down the front of her lacy boyshorts before she can even warn him.

"Fuck, Beckett. How are you this wet already?"

"Been waiting all day for this," she mumbles against his shirt, her head resting there as she wills her legs to keep her upright.

Castle starts to work her pants and underwear over her hips while she manages to kick her heels out of the way. It's all clumsy and ridiculous and they're laughing even as she stands naked from the waist down; she wonders if sex between them will always be this combination of hilarious and arousing and she really, really hopes it is. But then he chases their grins away with a long kiss, his tongue finding hers immediately when she meets him halfway.

Their bodies are pressed tightly together as they both stake claim on anything within reach. When she realizes he's still fully clothed, she untucks his shirt and fumbles with his belt, button, and zipper until she can reach into his boxers and pull him free, the familiar weight welcome in the palm of her hand. Then he stumbles backward, eagerly bringing her along, and falls onto the small couch she's certain he bought for occasions just like this. Somehow she catches herself and hovers just above him, allowing him a second to drag his tip across her too-sensitive nerves before she slides down so lazily that they both groan at the perfect torture.

Nothing is slow after that. The moment after he's completely buried inside her, he's gone again, his hands bruising against her hips as he helps her rise above him over and over and over, slamming noisily into his lap on each downward arc. The loose sweater she's still wearing has fallen off one shoulder and he takes advantage of the access he has; he nips and licks at her bare skin, apparently hungry for more than just the chaotic slap of their bodies. She can only suck on the side of his neck, his shirt still buttoned and altogether inhibiting, but she makes him gasp her name as she simultaneously clenches around him, the first whisper of her climax making itself known.

He releases her waist, wrapping one arm across her back and sliding the other hand between their legs to brush over her clit. She can tell he's trying to keep thrusting, but he's losing his rhythm and it doesn't even matter anymore, not with the pressure of his fingertips and _ohhhhhh_ , it's so good.

"Good, Castle. So, so good." She's not sure how coherent she is, but her words trip into a soundless cry when her entire body locks and her muscles spasm, the warmth spreading from her core until it's making her dizzy. He holds her impossibly tighter, so deep now, and she knows by the last few jerks of his hips that he's come, too. She slumps onto his chest as he collapses against the cushions, their hearts pounding wildly as they remain quietly connected.

After several minutes, he speaks softly against her messy hair. "I hope we didn't ruin dinner by letting it get cold."

"Don't worry. I packed something that could wait." She turns her head to kiss him one more time before she climbs off his lap and smirks. "I already knew I couldn't."


	11. Moonlit

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 126198662077 (NSFW)  
Rated M  
Romance  
Set anytime post-couple

* * *

The summer air is warm around them, even after the sun has gone down, but the drops of water falling from the tips of their hair cut cold lines as they trip along their naked backs. It matters little; the chill is easily ignored as they cling to each other, mouths unrelenting in their demand for _more_. They kiss long and deep, tongues dragging lazily, until their lips seek wider expanses of bare skin. Sucking at her neck draws a moan that rattles in her chest, and biting his shoulder produces a whispered _fuck_ and an unexpectedly sharp thrust between her legs.

He's been buried inside her for a while now, but they're in no hurry, the night as long as they want it to be. Easily calming again – the ghost of her bite only a tease now – he returns to his careful rhythm, seeking another kiss and the chance to let an _I love you_ roll from his tongue to hers. She's always light in his arms, her strength seemingly weightless, but the water makes her truly buoyant, and he revels in the effortless way she slides over his length, up and down, back and forth, the clench of her muscles a greeting he hopes will never stop.

Somehow they pull each other closer, fingers threaded through strands of hair, all comfort and no control. Her breasts rise just above his collarbones, her taut nipples brushing against his skin each time she rocks into him, and her legs are loosely wrapped around the back of his, certain she doesn't need the leverage she might use to her advantage elsewhere. He wonders how long they could stay like this, lost in late-night vacation sex, the moonlight blessing them as they promise each other forever, but then she breaks their kiss to mumble against his lips.

"I want to come with you inside me. Just like this. Make me come. Please make me come."

They both know she could do it herself, her fingers quick and talented, but they also know how much he loves to reach between them and feel their connection, always a perfect fit. He's the more tactile of the two – _he touches things_ – and he will never tire of letting his fingertips chase the slickness where she's stretched around him. When he's satisfied, his groan giving him away, he adjusts the position of his hand until he can stroke her where she's swollen and ready for him.

"Like this, Kate?" It's an unnecessary question, but they're both a little in love with words and he wants to hear her. "Tell me."

"God, yes. I love the way you touch me. And inside. So tight."

"Keep talking. Don't stop."

She hums at that and attempts to keep her hips moving now that he only has one hand to help guide her. "You don't stop. Fuck. I want—I'm so close—you have to come, too. Fill me up. Come inside me."

Everything is still so wonderfully slow, the gentle lapping of the water in sync with the undulation of their bodies, and he's mildly surprised that he's close, too. But there's little he can do to stop the sensation as it builds, coaxed by the things she continues to demand of him in between light kisses, and by the way her muscles pull him deeper each time they contract.

"Oh, god," she cries, fighting the sob that wants to be set free and falling forward to bite on his shoulder again while she comes.

It's almost as though she doesn't want to disturb the tranquility of the night, or draw the attention of the stars, so he follows her lead; when he spills inside her, he simply presses her name into her hair and closes his eyes in the silence.


	12. Helping Hands

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 104967173187 (may be NSFW)  
Rated T  
Hurt/Comfort/Romance  
Set anytime post-couple

* * *

She'd known baths would be forbidden, but the doctors had suggested she also skip a shower or two; not that it would be impossible to keep the stitches dry, but it would be much easier to maneuver around them once she wasn't quite so sore. Still, she looked down at the bandages secured to her abdomen and upper thigh and sighed in frustration. She desperately wanted to wash her hair, let the heat help soothe the tension in her shoulders, and forget about the entire day. The confrontation with her suspect had taken everything out of her and she was on the verge of breaking down completely.

"Sit down."

Her head snapped up at the gentle order, and she attempted a smile for the man gesturing toward the side of the tub. He'd undressed to his boxers, having noted that she was in nothing but her simple black boyshorts, and he stepped toward her when she failed to move from the middle of the bathroom. Pressing one firm hand to the small of her back, he guided her forward and repeated his command.

She settled onto the edge and felt him position himself just behind her, Pulling her knees toward her chest caused her to flinch when her injuries reminded her that she couldn't more so carelessly, but she stubbornly breathed through the pain and resisted the urge to cry. The sudden thundering of the water rushing into the tub matched the brutal thump of her heart.

He reached around to cup her chin with his hand, tipping her head backward and allowing room for him to pour near-scalding water over her hair, pausing only briefly before dousing her a second time. Then she heard the sharp click of a bottle opening and exhaled while she waited for the contact she knew would follow. When he brought both hands up to work the shampoo into her hair, she closed her eyes and let the tears fall; they were caught by the suds at her temples and helped cleanse her as thoroughly as the bathwater.

Familiar fingertips massaged her scalp for several moments, the warmth from his touch soothing her until more hot water could help wash away her unhappiness. When he coated her hair with a layer of conditioner, she was already far more relaxed, the tired tears slowing. He began to hum a favorite song, and by the time he rinsed her one last time, she was his completely.

He draped a thick towel over her shoulders to keep the chill from her skin and used a second one to soak the excess water from her hair. When he combed through the tangles with his fingers, she shivered; he hurried to secure the towel more tightly against her body, and she didn't have the energy to reassure him that she was fine. Finally, he swept her hair to the side and placed a careful kiss at the back of her neck, whispering at the soft curve.

"Let's go to bed."


	13. Opening Credits

From an anonymous prompt on tumblr: _The Orange is the New Black theme song is 1 minute and 15 seconds. Can you get me off before it comes on?_  
Rated M  
Smut/Romance  
Set during the summer between S7 and S8

* * *

They're tangled in one of the leather chairs in his office, Kate mostly in his lap, having migrated there after the takeout boxes were set aside and their second glasses of wine poured. It's still relatively early, the sun barely down, but they have no plans to go anywhere for the rest of the night. Castle assumes they'll spend most of tomorrow evening in his office, too; until they finish season three of _Orange is the New Black,_ there's really nowhere else they'd rather be.

The fourth episode is about to start when he sighs. "I love this show. I really, really, do. But it has an almost painfully long theme song."

Her head snaps around to face his, the gleam in her eye nothing short of wicked. "Well, why don't you find something better to do with that minute and fifteen seconds?"

"Oh, I like the way you think." He drags the tip of his finger along the inside of her leg, creeping upward until it's halted by the fabric of her tiny pajama shorts, just shy of where he'd like to be touching her. "Something like this?"

"Eh, that's not bad. But I'm not totally impressed."

His hand is wrapped around her ponytail before the last word is fully out of her mouth, the final syllable becoming nothing more than a wanton hiss when he uses his grip to bare her neck to him. He bites into the taut and sensitive skin, soothing the sting with his tongue a moment later. He only pulls away enough to slither upward, delighting in the shiver that rocks her when his next question is breathed into her ear.

"Is this a better use of my time?"

Her eyes slip closed, but she's far from surrendering. "Hmmmm, it's better, but still not a real challenge."

"A challenge? You want this to be a challenge?" He manages to shift them in the chair so that his back is pressed against one arm, hers against the opposite side. It's a face-off, a duel, and he will certainly rise to the occasion.

Truth be told, he already has.

She's looking at him again, lips pursed and eyebrow arched, even as she grabs the remote to pause the show. "Do you really think you can get me off before the episode begins?"

Words have been his weapon of choice for years, but they won't win this war, so he says nothing. Instead, he extricates himself from her body, the chair, and the cashmere throw that has been caught somewhere in between, silently leaving her alone and at least a little turned on.

It takes him less than a minute to return, his hand concealing the item he's retrieved from her nightstand. She's suspicious of his poorly-contained enthusiasm – it's a tenet of their relationship, really – but he ignores the question scribbled on her face and kneels before her.

"Press play."

He doesn't bother confirming that she's done so, nor does he waste any time with a slow, seductive removal of her shorts, simply tugging them down her mile-long legs and tossing them aside. Then he easily brings her forward on the chair and spreads her open to him; the seconds are ticking away, but he can't deny himself one quick swipe of his tongue over her, the confirmation of her arousal making him groan with satisfaction. Backing away before her gauntlet lies ignored on the floor for the remainder of the night, he picks up the silver bullet he'd palmed a minute ago and runs his thumb over the speed control until it's vibrating in his hand.

This certainly isn't his first rodeo, so he's fully prepared when her hips buck at the initial contact of the toy against her clit and he pushes her back down with his free hand. She's not perfectly still – nor would he really want her to be – but he's aware that his success or failure is only about 45 seconds away now and he releases his hold on her.

Keeping the vibrator in place and reveling in the beautiful sight of her so swollen and pink and ready, he slides two fingers deep. It's no surprise that she's as wet as she is, but it never ceases to take his breath away, the knowledge that he's the one fortunate enough to feel her like this, that he's the one who will wake up in the morning with her scent lingering on his skin. He keeps his fingers moving, the languid pace of his hand coaxing her toward the edge, the bullet threatening to send her flying over it.

Thirty seconds remain.

He starts talking then, utterly filthy as he describes what she's doing to him and all the things he'd like to do to her. Her muscles are beginning to contract around his fingers, the rhythmic pulse an encouragement. Perhaps a demand.

Twenty seconds now.

The bullet falls away from her clit, and her eyes widen dramatically in response; she needs that contact, and he knows it, but he can't resist teasing her for a few seconds. He's rewarded when he rests the vibrator against her once more and _fuck_ falls from her lips on a near-sob.

Fifteen seconds.

His fingers thrust forward again, but then he carefully curls them inside her, the pressure a perfect complement to the relentless vibrations of the toy. The movement is practiced, measured, and unfailing, and he turns all of his attention to the kaleidoscope of expressions on her face.

Ten seconds.

She's so damn close, her chest heaving, her back arching, and her knuckles white as she clings to the leather chair, about to lose a battle she never stood a chance of winning. It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to keep both of his hands busy, when all he really wants to do is stop and stare.

Five seconds.

He's grateful the loft is otherwise empty, because she gets loud when she unabashedly rides his hand through her climax, the vibrator skipping over her skin as she moves. He does his best to ease her back down, turning the bullet off and setting it aside before he slowly withdraws his fingers, her body silently begging him to stay.

"Using a toy is cheating."

"Sorry, but your complaint doesn't hold much weight when you're still gasping for air," he gloats. "There was nothing in your challenge about _how_ I had to get you off. And I've got ample evidence that I succeeded."

She rolls her eyes as he wiggles his fingers between them, but doesn't speak again until she's shuffling toward their bedroom on legs that are still far from supportive. "Turn off the television. I see a long night of success ahead of you."


	14. Finally Home

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 98997894747  
Rated K+  
Angst/Hurt/Comfort  
Set at the end of Montreal (7x02)

* * *

Neither of them sleep.

They're together, sharing a bed. Their bed. Her head rests on his chest as she absorbs the steady thump of his heart. It's a lullaby she's missed and its return should be soothing, but it just makes her angry. She never should have had to miss it in the first place.

Of course she's angry at the people who took him away. Didn't they read ahead? Don't they know that it's not how the story goes? These people shot at him, exposed him to a tropical disease, and inflicted enough trauma to make him lose two months of his life. Two months. She was shot in the chest and remembers every godforsaken second; how did he manage to forget everything? But maybe he didn't. Maybe he's just not ready to face the truth. She supposes she can't blame him for that.

She's angry at herself for questioning his devotion, for doubting that he wants to spend the rest of his life right here, wrecked by the silent storm of her heart, body, and mind. She's had two months of solid ground…cold tile beneath her knees when she awoke to another wave of nausea, unforgiving concrete beneath her feet when she waited at the park for the swing set to empty, the slick marble of the bathtub beneath her spine when she slid underwater in an attempt to mute the agony. He's had several hours of quicksand and fog, deceptive and limiting.

As much as she wishes it were different, she's angry at him. Why hasn't his return fixed everything? Everything should be better now that she can cling to him, instead of having nothing but his t-shirt and an empty side of the bed. She no longer has to sit in his chair when nobody's looking, willing herself to believe in the magic he's celebrated for years. They spent so long with an emotional connection that was only lacking physical confirmation; it's been reversed now and it hurts. They're so far apart, even as his breath falls against her hair. He should be able to make it better. He always has before.

She sighs, so tired and ready to stop thinking. He answers with a sigh of his own, probably just as exhausted, just as frustrated.

Still, neither of them sleep.


	15. Enough

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 115693069317  
Rated T  
Romance  
Set at the end of Once Upon a Crime (4x17)

* * *

She hasn't let go of his hand. Well, he supposes she must have at some point, but he doesn't remember and would rather pretend it hasn't happened at all. He's still reliving the moment she first covered his hand with hers, his mother's highly-exaggerated monologue quieting to an unimportant hum as he swallowed nervously. He can't stop thinking about the way she used their joined hands to pull him to his feet when the show was over, threading their fingers together while she made small talk with his family. And he can't forget the soft press of their palms as they said goodnight to everyone, closing the front door behind the young playwright and watching Martha and Alexis disappear upstairs, Kate seemingly uninterested in leaving him alone.

Sure, things have been shifting between them, a slow journey toward whatever they'd promised each other that afternoon on the swings. She's come over for a few dinners since the meal they shared after the bank explosion, each night arguably cozier than the last. There was an implicit level of intimacy during her bout with PTSD, an unexpectedly quiet faith in each other. Then at Ryan's wedding, an affirmation hidden in her joke about the third time being a charm; it was as if they had each skipped ahead in their story and knew how it ended, even if they couldn't figure out the chapters in between. But this? The unbroken physical connection, their pulses in harmony? They've never done _this._

Until now, apparently.

They're in his kitchen, empty champagne glasses having been set on the countertop and forgotten there, discarded in favor of whatever it is they hope to accomplish by standing unusually close in the quiet of the loft. His jacket is long gone, resting just under her coat on the back of a living room chair – they must have stopped holding hands when they removed those, right? Logic tells him yes, but he's increasingly distracted by the rhythmic brush of her thumb, lulling him into submission that he would have granted her anyway. More than ever, he's following her lead.

His heart thumps wildly, an erratic beat that he can only hope isn't reverberating in his fingertips. He wonders if she's nervous, but there's no way to tell while she stands so still next to him, comfortably at-home in a way that forces him to press his lips together to keep a lifetime of vows from pouring forth. Their bodies are aligned, though not touching, their hands clasped in the space between them, and he thinks maybe he should say something. Anything to complement this perfect night she's thrust upon them.

Then she slips her hand away from his and the emptiness aches in a way he hadn't expected. He swallows and starts to step past her – he can deliver a sincerely gracious goodbye and a promise to see her tomorrow – when she touches a single finger to his arm. He quickly searches for an answer in her eyes, his question unspoken but obvious; she keeps her focus lowered to where she's drawing mindless patterns against his sleeve, so he's forced to read her body language instead. She's calm, even when struck by an infinitesimal shudder, and seeking, even when shadowed by a sliver of hesitance.

He can work with that.

They both watch her graceful path, her hand eventually finding the seam of his shirt and tracing the length of it in an oddly familiar way. She's still not making eye contact, but he's just brave enough to card his fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ear and holding his hand steady against her cheek. There's no pressure for her to react, he has no expectations from this point forward, but she subtly relaxes into his touch and sighs. It's such a delicate thing and it takes his breath away. He tips his forehead down to hers and notes that her eyelids have shuttered any emotion he had hoped to catch, so he closes his own eyes and simply appreciates their connection.

She drops her hand to his waist, only to creep up the front of his shirt and boldly trip over the buttons, leaving each one in place along the way. It's when she arrives at his collar that she seems uncertain; she uses it to tug him even closer, then stops to smooth it against his body, her hand over his heart and discovering all his secrets.

 _Kate._

He whispers her name as an apology of sorts; for what, he's not sure.

Even as they fumble through this thing, they manage to be in sync, her arms wrapping around his neck just as his fall to slide over the curve of her hips and rest against the small of her back. He tries once more to meet her eyes, but she's still not ready. Instead, he welcomes her as she settles her head on his shoulder, her breath hot on his skin.

She's playing with his hair now, and it's erotic in a way he isn't prepared for at all; he finds his fingertips pressing into either side of her spine to counter the softness of her touch, offering her an impromptu massage. When she tightens the embrace, he has the courage to explore more openly, his hands skating over the harsh edges of her shoulderblades and the smooth lines of her ribcage. He wants to touch more of her, not merely to satisfy a carnal need, but to complete the description he's written a thousand times in his head. Where has she been kissed by the sun, a splash of freckles left behind? What will she look like with goosebumps along her skin? How perfectly does her back bow when she surrenders to ecstasy?

Nothing more will happen tonight, but he still hums contentedly when he feels her lips brush over his neck, a seal upon whatever oath she's sworn.

It's enough for now.


	16. Lace

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 108225142142 (NSFW)  
Rated M  
Smut/Romance  
Set anytime post-marriage

* * *

She settles into the middle of the bed, her head resting on enough pillows to give her a comfortable view.

The duvet has been pushed off the foot of the bed and she's bare except for the panties she's left on, a slight chill tripping across her skin. She chases the goosebumps with her hands as they stroke, twist, glide, and tease over every part of her, eventually landing on her breasts; she pinches her nipples and her eyes fall closed at the perfect blend of pleasure and pain.

Her body is humming and she can't manage to keep herself waiting for long, so she allows one hand to skate over her abdomen, her fingertips seeking the heat they crave. There's a whisper of relief as soon as she slips beneath the waistband, but it's gone by the time she can embrace its presence, so she keeps moving.

The lace is rough against the back of her hand, such a stunning contrast to the way her fingers slide so smoothly through the wetness that awaits her. She's more than ready, has been all day, but she bites her lip and reminds herself to take her time. To enjoy both the journey and the destination. Taking a deep breath, she savors each sudden flare of arousal, loses herself in the slick dance of her fingertips.

And it really is a dance. There are the flawless and uninterrupted circles of a Viennese Waltz, the rhythmic rocking of the Cha Cha, and the unabashed lust of the Argentine Tango. Her hand flutters and strokes, beckons and demands, and her body is all too willing to follow each lead, ever the willing partner.

Eventually, two fingers are wickedly buried, embraced by her need, and she moans at the way she so desperately holds on. But it won't do any good to stay still for long, so she finds a careful pace, one with which she's intimately familiar. Her hand is trapped by her panties, so she can only pull away so far before she is encouraged to return to the warmth she's barely left. And as she eases deep once again, she is intent on letting the heel of her palm press downward, her responding shiver instantaneous.

It's enough to snap the self-control that was tenuous at best. She doesn't need to maintain the steady thrusting, not right now, though her body doesn't understand and spasms incessantly at the sudden absence of the fingers that had filled her a second ago. In a hurry to assuage the desire that she swears is becoming palpable, her middle fingertip works furiously as the rest of her body begins to tense.

She's close, so damn close, and she forces her eyes to stay wide open when she applies that last bit of pressure. Then she hears her own long, low moan and feels her hand everywhere at once; she's needy and over-sensitive and reckless and sated and her fingers don't know which feeling to heed. She should probably stop, but she's greedy and wants every last aftershock she can manage to tease from her core as she slows.

After a few final tremors, she feels a pleasant ebb and flow, the intensity of her arousal blunted even as she notes her body's quiet request for more. She won't need much time to recover and her hand is already wriggling beneath the lace to ignite round two, but it's only a moment before her husband's strong fingers wrap around her forearm.

"The next one comes from me."


	17. Blind Date

From an anonymous prompt on tumblr: _"You're supposed to be on a blind date with someone but you sat down at the wrong table and I haven't been able to get a word in edgewise to tell you that and it's been thirty minutes."_  
Rated K+  
Humor/Romance  
AU set near the beginning of 1x10

* * *

The thick rim of the mug is distinctly different from any of the ones she uses at home, but it's familiar nonetheless, the coffee predictably strong as she takes her first sip. Kate is seated toward the back of the diner today, but it gives her a good view of the entrance and it's not as though she won't be spotted right away; they meet here for breakfast every few weeks, so she's confident he'll find her with little trouble. He's already texted to say he's running a little late this morning, and she's content to relax with her caffeine fix while she gazes out the window at the people passing by.

She's only just swallowed when she's sure she sees Richard Castle – _the_ Richard Castle – hurrying along the sidewalk and curving around the corner until he's out of sight. Of course, he lives here in the city, so it's entirely possible that it's really him, though she argues with herself that the rumored playboy is probably too hungover from some late-night soiree and naked fun with an anonymous fan to be moving quite so energetically at this hour. And it's not like she didn't get to say an awkward hello when she'd had a book signed a few years ago, so she doesn't need another opportunity to embarrass herself in the presence of someone who wouldn't look twice at her unless she popped a few buttons on her shirt.

She's not interested in being another of his conquests.

Kate shakes her head at her own wandering thoughts, fighting an eye roll when she brings the mug to her lips again, then nearly choking on the coffee when Richard Castle winds his way through the busy diner and slides into the empty seat across from her.

Richard Castle. Across from her.

Um.

Okay.

"I am so sorry I'm late. And there's really nothing I can say that won't sound like a terrible excuse, so please just accept my sincerest apology."

"I—uh, I don't think—,"she's more tongue-tied than she's been since the end of her hour of standing in line at Barnes & Noble, but her favorite author has joined her for breakfast and she has no idea how to respond.

He nods at her coffee. "I'm glad you didn't wait to order. Is the coffee pretty good here? And the food? Or is this your first time here, too? I don't do a lot of breakfast dates, actually. I'm usually home with my daughter, so she and I love to experiment with new recipes. In fact, I make this one thing called a smorelette – it's exactly what it sounds like and so delicious. Oh! I should write down the details in case you want to make it some time."

She's about to question the wisdom of combining chocolate, marshmallows, graham crackers, and eggs, but just as she opens her mouth, he's talking again.

"And I'm guessing you've heard a little about my daughter. Alexis. She's fifteen, but probably more of an adult than I am. And that's sort of why I was late. She just got asked to prom and we're going dress shopping later today, but I kinda freaked out about it this morning, just thinking about my baby girl growing up and going to college and moving out and getting married and having kids of her own and—"

He pauses when he sees her hand in the air, but merely laughs at himself and goes on. "You're right. You _and_ my mother. She's the one who tried to calm me down and reminded me that I was going to stand up my blind date if I didn't get a grip. But I'm here now and I'm grateful that my mother kicked me out of my own loft so that I could meet you. You're—well, you're beautiful. Your eyes are—oh, I just sound shallow and I promise I'm not, but we haven't really had the opportunity to get to know each other yet, and I'm looking forward to learning more about you."

Kate supposes she should start with the fact that she's not the woman he intended to meet, but before she can begin to explain, their server – a petite gray-haired woman whom Kate's come to adore over the past several months – steps up to the table to take their order. Her pen is out, but her curiosity pulls one eyebrow high as she tips her head toward the unexpected guest. Kate can only shrug and smile, her companion rushing to study the menu as she finally gets the chance to speak.

"I'll have the cinnamon french toast and a side of crispy bacon. Please and thank you, Flora."

"Sure thing, Detective."

Wide blue eyes snap toward her. "Wait, you're a detective? I could have sworn Bob said you were an attorney. I must have misunderstood…stuck you in the wrong part of the 'law and order' paradigm. But 'in the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups,' so I applaud your hard work within any part of that process."

Flora is amused by the childlike enthusiasm in every word that tumbles from the writer's mouth, and Kate tilts her head as she attempts to read the man while his focus is turned away from her. He's just as handsome as she remembers from the book signing, but the way he's talked about his family and the obvious nervousness over a blind date – at an average New York diner, no less – make her wonder how inaccurately Page Six has portrayed him all these years.

At the very least, it's making her glad she'd turned down Will's recent attempts to rekindle the relationship that had ended when he'd run off to Boston. His return to the city and something of a lingering spark had made her consider it, but letting him leave the precinct alone had been a good decision.

Not that it really matters today. It's not like Richard Castle is going to stick around once he realizes he's on the wrong breakfast date.

If she can just get a word in.

Once Flora is gone and his attention shifts back to her, she's treated to another joyous monologue, his delivery something he may have inherited from the mother he lovingly refers to as "melodramatic." And as Kate grins at the way his eyes crinkle and his voice dances, she has the passing thought that she'd be annoyed by anyone else rambling like this on a first date, but resting back in chair and accepting her role as an audience of one, she finds that she doesn't mind. He is, after all, a storyteller. And it's more than that. He's still a bit anxious, working hard to impress her as he refuses to take himself too seriously. It's endearing.

Their meals are served at some point between his retelling of an epic laser tag battle with his daughter and his confession that he killed Derrick Storm out of boredom. She comes close to a bold interruption at the mention of his books because she's rather desperate to know what he plans to write next, but she remains silent for a while longer, humming around a mouthful of food. Kate has the chance to look around the diner when they both get distracted by breakfast, and she catches movement across the room. It's definitely time to speak up.

"Wow, these pancakes are incredible, Kristin."

And now she has two reasons to say something. "Um, it's Kate."

He looks startled, his fork in midair. "No, no. I'm sure Bob said your name is Kristin."

"If I had to guess, I'd say her name is Kristin," she explains, nodding toward the woman she'd seen paying her check and tossing her phone into her purse with a frustrated sigh. "I'm Kate, and I'm really sorry I didn't say anything, but you've been so excited to talk, and if you want to run and catch up with her, you'll probably make it."

There's a slow blink and the flush of embarrassment as the man realizes how he's screwed up, and Kate scrunches her nose while she waits for him to bail.

But he never does.

"I—God, I'm an idiot. I was told that she'd be waiting for me on the right side of the diner, but I saw you sitting here alone and hurried to the left, which is sort of the right if you're looking at it from the diner's perspective and facing the street, but that makes no sense because of course I'd be walking in and facing the diner, so the right right was right and I went left which was wrong, and yeah, I'm an idiot."

"I'm so sorry."

He chuckles. "Sorry that I'm an idiot or sorry that I intruded upon your breakfast?"

"Neither of those, actually. Just sorry that you left someone else waiting while I had the pleasure of your company." Kate is about to say more, but Flora sweeps by again.

"Um, Detective, your dad just arrived. Figured I should give you a heads up."

The older woman is gone before any thanks can be given, but Kate laughs at the shocked face across the table. "I meet my dad here every few weeks. He happened to be running late today, hence the lonely woman and her coffee."

"I'm beginning to think I need a word stronger than _idiot_."

There's no time to say more before her dad is standing beside them, looking back and forth. "My apologies, I didn't realize we'd be a party of three today."

"Oh, no, I was just leaving." She watches as her surprised companion takes one last gulp of coffee and stumbles to his feet, holding his hand out toward her father. "Mister, um—"

"Ah, you two haven't made it past first names yet? I mean, I do hope you exchanged those at least, Katie." Her cheeks burn as she stares back without a word, caught by her father doing nothing but having an accidental date. Still, she knows it probably looks pretty suspicious to be out with a good looking man so early on a Sunday morning, and her dad doesn't bother to hide his smirk, his eyes continuing to work side to side. "Okay then…maybe I should be the one to go so that you can finish up whatever I've interrupted."

Some part of her wants to stop him, make sure he knows he's more than welcome to sit down; a more insistent – and certainly smitten – part of her is happy to see him go. And maybe that's terrible, but she's been given the opportunity to share a meal with a man whose books she's loved for years and she's loath to surrender the little time she has left.

It's all about the books, of course. Not at all about the hint of stubble along Richard Castle's jawline.

Her dad disappears with a wink, and the two of them are left with varying shades of guilt and half-eaten plates of food. With no idea what to do next, she looks to him for help and is met with the charming smile she's seen on so many book jackets.

"Kate? I'm Rick. It's very nice to meet you and I'm sorry for the weird way our date has started."

A relieved laugh falls from her mouth. "Are we still on a date?"

"We are if you want to be," he replies with a shrug. "But since we're probably done here, can I suggest that we maybe grab some coffee to go? Walk to the park? Kick some little kids off the swings and race to see which one of us can go higher?"

She stands, brushing her hands down the front of her jeans and forcing herself to stay calm at the thought of spending the rest of the morning with this man. "Sounds a little mean, but not entirely unappealing. Think we can talk a little more, too?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure I've done enough of that for today, but I've got a lot to learn about you. So, tell me, Kate…what _is_ your last name?"


	18. Trust

Trust  
From an anonymous prompt on tumblr: _"_ _Kate's internal monologue at various points in the ep: 1) before she goes to Castle bc she trusts him; 2) later that night after the kiss. Basically, I'm wondering what she's willing to admit to herself she feels about him throughout the episode and what she might acknowledge she's avoiding."_ _  
_Rated K+  
Hurt/Comfort/Romance  
Set during Knockdown (3x13)

* * *

She tosses her phone next to where she sits on the couch, the cushion muting its landing, and Kate is distracted by the echo of a weary voice for several seconds after the call has ended.

 _We need to talk about your mother's case. There's something you don't know._

Detective John Raglan, the man she'd wanted to trust all those years ago, even if she could never quite find the strength to believe he'd get the job done. His declaration that her mom had been the victim of random gang violence had left a sour taste in her mouth then, and it's only grown bitter with time.

Well, with time and the confirmation that there was nothing random about Johanna Beckett's death.

There's only an hour before she has to be at the coffee shop, so she squeezes her eyes shut and forces crime scene images from her head, hurrying to the shower to rinse away the sweat from her impromptu workout and the anxiety from too many unanswered questions. The scalding water easily bleeds into the tears she ignores, her heart aching with the realization that she shouldn't involve her father yet, but unsure that she can do this alone.

Until she realizes she doesn't have to.

Kate's forehead falls against the cool tile. There's no holding onto faux irritation about the shadow she'd accepted long ago, no need to pretend that Castle hasn't become an important part of her life. He's her partner. Her friend.

He's someone she trusts.

It's more than his obvious intelligence and the fact that he's helped her team close case after case. Her appreciation extends past an espresso machine he gifted, an apology he offered, and a home he opened to her without a moment's hesitation. She feels his impact beyond the sentences he finishes when her words waver and the smiles he elicits when she can cry no more. He has softened her rough edges, and made a world without her mom bright enough to enjoy.

All the things she hadn't thought possible, Castle's made so, asking so little of her in return. That awareness adds a dash of guilt to whatever else gathers in her chest at the thought of him, and she swears she'll find a way to express her gratitude after their meeting with Raglan. He deserves to know he matters.

As she abandons the shower and gets dressed, she tugs on a jacket that infuses her with both comfort and strength – something has to keep her going until she gets to the loft. And it's only when she raises her gloved hand to knock that she realizes she didn't call ahead, has no idea whether he's even home. It's only the certainty that he's somehow always there for her that stops her from crumbling in the hall.

The front door swings open, and she's met with the calm she needs. Castle invites her in, of course, and she fights the urge to accept, to pretend this moment is about the two of them and not at all connected to a tragedy holding her captive. But she has to see this through, find out what the detective could possibly need to tell her now.

They move toward the elevator together and it strikes her that Raglan's demand was a waste of breath; another cop was never going to be the first person she turned to for backup.

* * *

It's late when she collapses onto her couch after their case is closed – maybe it's even better described as early the next morning – but Ryan and Esposito are safe their respective homes and Hal Lockwood is in custody and Castle's knuckles will recover with a little bit of rest. She touches her fingertips to her lips, not totally sure of how she's doing, or whether she'll recover as easily.

He'd kissed her.

He'd kissed her and then she'd kissed him and there's no way to avoid the truth that they had kissed each other in a ruse that hadn't fooled anyone but a thug's guard and maybe a shadow or two. Though honestly, the shadows had probably seen too much in their time to have believed the kiss was anything but real. They'd heard her moan, watched the needy grasp of arms reluctant to let go.

And maybe if it had ended there, if the warmth of his mouth hadn't been so closely followed by the fury of his fist, she'd be able to pretend that his was a physical attraction and nothing more; the way he'd hit Lockwood told a different story, the conflict far more complex.

So she sits in the dark, claws for courage, and makes a decision before she can let cowardice win again. Josh is still in Africa, difficult to reach in any circumstance, and not worth troubling from so far away, but she'll sit down with him as soon as he returns to the country. While she waits, there's another conversation to have. An acknowledgement of something more than a partnership, two people who have become more than friends.

Because Castle isn't just the man she trusts.

She picks up her phone from where it rests next to her on the couch.


	19. Sealed with a Kiss

Sealed with a Kiss  
Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumblr dot com slash post slash 138892433672  
Rated K+  
Hurt/Comfort/Romance  
Set mid-season 4

* * *

Kate eases his bedroom door open, careful to preserve the silence as she slips through the gap she's created, though she recognizes the absurdity of her concern. There's so little chance of him stirring, even the click-clack of the heels she toed off in his office wouldn't have alerted him to her presence. It's just as well; the first time he sees her in his bedroom shouldn't be paired with the pain he'll feel when he's awake again.

When she pushes the door shut, the soft snap has her eyes falling closed, her chest constricting with guilt, and it takes all she has to turn around and face him after what she's put him through. After all the years of reminding him that he's not a cop, all the times she's lectured him about his safety or begged him to stay in the car, she's the one who broke procedure this morning. She's the one who put him in danger. She's the one to blame for why he's hopped up on painkillers and stuck in bed.

And, sure, he probably would have found his way into the same mess himself. He had a knack for being too close – as all good shadows do – and would have likely been hurt no matter what she'd said and done. But that logic isn't working for her right now, not while she listens to his steady snoring and frowns at the uncomfortable way he's propped up on half a dozen pillows.

The doctor who had checked him out swore he'd be fine, and Lanie had easily agreed. The meds will help him through the worst of it and he'll need to take it easy for a while, but no lasting damage was done.

Not to him, anyway.

But it's reminded her that none of them are guaranteed a tomorrow, and putting off the things she wants – the relationship she wants – will only serve to haunt once the future has become the past. She can't keep wasting time.

So she tiptoes across the room until she can sit close enough to watch his eyelashes flutter, the beautiful lines of his face soothed by sleep.

Then she tells him everything.

It's all a whisper, but she starts at the beginning of their story, before either of them could have expected it to carry on the way it has. There's no real mystery to develop, not when he's lived it at her side, but she still manages to sneak in a secret or two, ducking her head as though he might awaken to catch the embarrassment sweeping across her shy smile.

She reminisces about book parties and weddings and holidays and precinct celebrations. She wonders what might have been that summer in the Hamptons, and apologizes for months of recovery spent alone. She laughs at pranks pulled and jokes shared, and wipes away a tear for the losses they've endured. All of it, the highs and lows, together.

And finally, there are the words she'd failed to speak when he'd held her in a freezer, and the words she'd pretended not to hear when he'd held her in a cemetery.

She says them now, and vows to repeat them soon enough.

It's time for her to leave, with both Martha and Alexis home to watch over Castle, but she doesn't move away quite yet. Instead, she presses her palm to his cheek, the stubble making her want more, and leans in to seal their happily ever after with a kiss.


	20. Hello

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumblr dot com slash post slash 147917508157  
Rated K+  
Angst/Romance  
Set after Target/Hunt (5x15/5x16)

* * *

She'd turned her head when the scream had torn through the hallway, the sound leaving scratches on the walls but retracting its claws in the face of her nonchalance; it had died at her feet when she hadn't bothered to move toward the man who'd opened his mouth and let it free.

It had been up to Castle to silence it, one way or another.

So she had given her partner – that role more loaded now than ever – the time he'd needed to get answers and no small amount of retribution, standing far enough away from where Castle was interrogating the kidnapper's driver to claim ignorance, even as she'd suddenly learned too much.

Later, back at the precinct, she'd feigned some appropriate level of surprise, telling him she hadn't thought he had that side to him.

But she'd known.

And perhaps it should have concerned her more than it had. She'd tried to tell herself that whatever he'd done to that man was in line with she'd already observed when he'd been slow to pull his fist from Hal Lockwood and quick to pull the trigger against Jerry Tyson. Castle was unabashedly protective of his loved ones, with a dark edge that could rival her own, so she'd let his newest offense slide with the justification that it was more of the same.

That had been over a week ago. And now nothing was the same.

Sure, Alexis had been saved in Paris and they'd all celebrated with a gluttonous breakfast at the loft. There had been hugs and smiles, kisses and laughter, a family reunited and a nightmare forgotten. Except she knows as well as anyone that the bad stuff doesn't like to be wiped away so neatly, that it continues to spill and stain and seep into everything good.

She assumes that's why she's been alone every night since it happened. Castle had promised to include her in future rescue missions, but had made no such vow about sharing a bed again. Or a quiet meal. Or even a conversation. Whatever temporary high had been granted upon his return from France had faded by that evening, yet to offer any hope of the domesticity they'd enjoyed before his daughter had been taken. And she can't be certain the turning point was leaving him alone to talk to that driver, but that's the moment she wants to change. That's the memory that hurts the most.

Rolling over to reach for her phone, her body protesting after hours of immobility, she's tempted to break his silence with the force he's turned on her more than once, the unspoken love and almost palpable fear inherently wrapped around conversations nobody wants to have. She trembles with the need to reassure him, a tear falling at the knowledge that her words won't be enough. Not until he's ready to listen.

And she's pushed him away so many times, it would be unfair to refuse him the same right.

When he finally comes to her – and she has to believe he will – she'll bury her face against his neck and press love into his skin. She'll remind them of their friendship and everything they've become since, welcoming him home as soon as he whispers a simple hello.

* * *

His head is tilted awkwardly against the back of the leather chair in his office, but the open door affords him a view of an empty bed, and his fist clenches against the empty glass in his hand. She won't be crawling beneath the sheets any time soon; her side of the bed had been cold for several nights now, and he can't expect that to change until his penance is paid.

It's entirely self-inflicted, of course. His worst punishments always have been.

His eyes slipped closed, but the moment of darkness reminds him too much of standing in that bedroom, staring down at the man who'd eventually yielded to his will. It's why he's been unable to sleep, why he's dulled everything – the good just as assuredly as the bad – with too much liquor and too little companionship. He's been vigilant about keeping Alexis in sight for as long as she can stand it, but when she slips away, he banishes himself to the rooms that force him to feel Kate, even while he won't allow himself the embrace of the women herself.

He's supposed to be the source of light in her life; how can he ask her to hold him after he's brought them more darkness?

In his more logical hours, he's able to argue with himself. They've worked together for years and this isn't the first time the shadier parts of his life have clouded hers. Damian Westlake tested them, Sophia Turner almost got them killed, but they'd managed to come out of those cases with their partnership intact, maybe even strengthened. And he doesn't regret doing everything he could to save his daughter. Obviously.

Still, something had shifted when he'd returned to Kate's side that afternoon, pushed even further when she'd wanted to know what had happened in that bedroom, as though stripping him bare would have done either of them any good.

She'd needed deniability; he'd needed to forget.

Now, even with bourbon humming in his veins, there's no forgetting any of it and he's not sure he'll be able to forgive. Not his father, not himself, and not Kate, though she's guilty of nothing but following his lead.

Sighing, he leans forward to slide his glass onto the surface of his desk, exchanging it for his phone and marveling at the weight of it against his palm, a technological albatross. The press of his thumb gifts him with her smile, some mixture of condemnation and absolution in her eyes, and he swipes her away to enter his passcode.

It's so late, but he longs for his lover – needs his friend even more – and he wills himself to make it past the point at which he's thrown his phone aside every other night. Only a few more seconds and they can both begin to heal, using whatever words he can find until he can feel her heart beat in time with his.

"Castle?"

The hope in her voice is overwhelming, and the emotion lowers his voice to a whisper.

"Hello."


	21. Three Little Words

Three Little Words  
From an anonymous tumblr prompt: _"Pre-couple. One of them accidentally ends a call with 'I love you.'"  
_ Rated K+  
Hurt/Comfort/Romance  
Set during 3XK (3x06)

* * *

" _I just need some piece of evidence. I mean, someone that he talked to. Anything."_

" _What if Gates confided in Jerry about the previous murders?"_

" _Yeah, well, Jerry's not going to talk to us. He got beaten up in the prison yard this morning and he thinks that Gates had something to do with it."_

" _Sounds like Gates is afraid of what Jerry Tyson knows."_

* * *

They haven't been on the phone long, but Castle knows his mind began to wander seconds into their conversation, his wit dulled immediately after he'd teased her about seeking his counsel on the Triple Killer case. He supposes her decision to come to him for help would have filled him with childlike pride at any point in their odd little partnership, but it carries extra weight when he's been questioning where he stands, Beckett's new boyfriend casting just enough shadow to make Castle wonder whether he's about to be left in the dark.

He argues with himself in that split second, aware she has every right to be dating someone. And though he hasn't found a way to tell her about his break-up with Gina, he isn't sure it would change anything at all. Still, if she's willing to call him for something other than a body drop, with no developments or theories of her own to offer, she must intend to keep him around a while longer.

So he's proud of himself for reaching just past his stupid grin – one she can't see but certainly hears – to offer his opinion of the Gates-Tyson dynamic. He can tell Beckett is hesitant, and he does his best to refocus as she makes plans for them to return to Sing Sing for another interview with Jerry Tyson. And when she finally tells him she'll pick him up in an hour, it doesn't really matter how much he thinks his brain is on top of things; his mouth has other plans.

"Okay, see you then. I love you."

The call ends there, or so he assumes. The relentless thump of his heartbeat muffles all other sound, and between his inability to detect words and the fact that he can't breathe, he wonders if he's somehow fallen underwater. It's only the flash of heat scorching his face and overwhelming nausea that assure him he's on land, mostly upright, and living in the wake of a disastrous goodbye. Castle's eyes drift shut with relief when he notices neither his mother nor daughter were in the room to witness his faux pas, but it's short-lived; they're certain to find out the truth when Beckett kicks him out of the precinct.

He spends much of the next sixty minutes pacing in his office, alternately combing frustrated fingers through his hair and fumbling with his phone with the thought of cancelling on her before she can do the same to him. Castle's creativity fails him, unable to write a way out from under three little words, instead imagining too many what-might-have-beens without a happy ending. It's mostly luck that helps him remember to grab his coat and shoes and he stumbles downstairs, out of his building, and into her car, bracing himself for whatever she's about to say.

But other than a hurried hello, Beckett makes no sound.

Castle considers the possibility that she missed his blunder entirely; perhaps she was distracted by their struggles with the Triple Killer case or had disconnected the call before his mouth ran away with his dreams. But the song on the radio is too loud and she won't stop scratching at some invisible spot on the steering wheel and the pink across her cheeks suggests something more than heavy-handed makeup, so he presses himself against the back of the seat and pretends the silence is comfortable for both of them.

By the time they reach the prison, he's ready to walk on solid ground again, her denial something he isn't interested in challenging, though he has little choice once they cut a deal with Jerry Tyson, the rush of new information pushing the personal aside. The rest of the day has them brainstorming with Montgomery, studying surveillance video, and interrogating Marcus Gates. He also jumps at the opportunity to partner with Ryan for a while, seeing no reason to press his luck if and when Beckett stops playing ostrich.

The decision to scamper away from her side, driven by embarrassment and fear, changes everything.

* * *

Hours later, Castle is alone by the motel pool, the stone bench numbing him where he sits, though he feels everything else a bit too much for his liking. He'd like to be hypnotized by the swirl of blue, but he senses her arrival long before she's offering him a cup of steam and sludge.

He thanks her for the coffee, and though he's content with sitting in silence for the second time that day, he's not surprised when she asks him why Tyson let him live; Beckett doesn't like unanswered questions any more than he does. Unfortunately, he has little to offer beyond the logic he's sure she already worked out for herself, the notion that 3XK is content to let his survival taunt Castle as more women die.

And even then, his voice falters, his words lost to the cold night.

When she slips her hand over his knee, the warmth immediate, he can't help but cover it with his own and squeeze with faux reassurance. Some promise that they'll both be fine. A promise that lasts for several minutes, until she cracks the quiet again.

"What you said earlier, when we were on the phone—"

The urge to pull away is almost impossible to fight, and he knows she feels the tug of his fingers before he can fully stop it. "Beckett, it was a mistake and I'm sorry. We really don't have to talk about it."

"You usually like to talk about everything."

"Yeah, well, running my mouth has caused enough trouble today."

She tilts her head toward him, the crease between her brows capturing his attention until her mouth parts and he finds himself staring at her lips instead. "Was it a mistake because you didn't mean to say it aloud, or because you didn't mean it at all?"

Castle does unclasp their hands then, the physical connection too much if she's going to continue to tear him apart like this, and he turns his focus to the pool as though it's the key to his escape. She waits him out, infinitely patient in her interrogation, the coffee a bribe while she awaits his confession. The water is right there, but he resigns himself to a dive in the other direction.

"Of course I meant it."

Her slow nod is visible only peripherally. "But it was wrong because you're still with Gina."

"We broke up. Again," he sighs. "But I shouldn't have said it while you're dating the doctor."

Beckett's laugh is laced with too much sadness to feel right and his head snaps back toward her. "I'm not dating the doctor anymore."

"No?"

"No. I wanted that relationship for all the wrong reasons and he figured it out quickly enough."

"Wrong reasons?" He sounds stupid to his own ears, and he wonders if he's suffering from Ryan's concussion.

"Reasons that no longer exist, Castle."

His brain still struggles to keep up because it sounds like she's referring to him and Gina and her and the doctor – Josh, right? – and that those romantic messes might somehow be part of the same complicated equation and now that he's single and she's single there are other possibilities and he doesn't know what to do with any of it because he was never all that great at math or love.

He is, however, excellent at blurting things out without thinking. "I want to kiss you right now."

The smile his awkward admission elicits is the best part of his day, and he vows then to do whatever he can to keep it on her face, even as Beckett bumps his shoulder with hers and brings him back to reality.

"First, you should probably call Martha and Alexis, so they can sleep soundly knowing you're okay. Second, we should go get some coffee. Better coffee. The kind that won't do irreparable harm to our stomachs."

Castle laces his fingers through hers once more. "Please tell me there's a third."

"Third, you should take me home and kiss me goodnight."

* * *

A/N: This is a terribly late birthday gift for M, who may have aged a few years while awaiting this fic. I apologize for my battle with words, but thank you for your friendship and wish you a wonderful (belated) birthday!


End file.
